


You Turned My Head

by hockeyhawk



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Incubus Jonny, M/M, Mythology References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeyhawk/pseuds/hockeyhawk
Summary: Jonny gets turned into a creature of the night. It's really inconvenient. Patrick's just helping out, right?





	You Turned My Head

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how long ago I read this prompt 'i just got turned into an incubus or a succubus and i’m like the least smooth and most self-conscious person on the planet so i’m literally starving because i don’t know how to seduce people' but it stuck in my head this long. Thank you BFE for finally FINALLY getting me to finish this. 
> 
> Setting vaguely in 2014, but not in ways that really matter.
> 
> ABOUT THAT AO3 WARNING: this is not a dark fic, but clearly the whole incubus theme has intrinsic consent issues, and the fic starts with Jonny getting turned against his will. Otherwise, he's trying to deal all the time, but he backslides sometimes and does think about using his new powers for sex, in situations which would be non-consensual.
> 
> WARNING 2: mentions and brief description of both Patrick and Jonny having other partners

In retrospect, Jonny probably should have been more careful about getting licked by strangers in preseason. You know, Blackhawks captain gets a lot of fan attention, but keeping it to high fives, autographs and politely refusing to kiss girls in the endless round of selfie requests should have been his limit. No more groupie hook-ups, not even at his regular rate of one or two per season.

Which is great in hindsight, but does him zero favours right now. The creature that licked him (he’s going with ‘creature’ because his previous assumption of ‘woman’ went AWOL the moment she licked him with some kind of hypnotic saliva and he found he was basically stuck following her orders) is in complete control. Like, he’s still here, but he’s not entirely happy about the turn the evening has taken. 

He absolutely was into sex with her, previously to the hypnotic paralysis thing, so it’s not the _worst_ thing that she’s riding him into the sunset here, but he would ideally be putting more of himself into this, not just lying back and taking her everything. Especially this part where she’s moaning like a champ, and fastening her teeth into his shoulder like he’s a chew toy. 

He comes, and it’s the least interested he’s ever felt in sex. Like, just following orders, as she grinds and moans against him, wringing him dry and coming up for air with blood all over her mouth.

The spell or whatever breaks, and he says, “What the fuck did you just do?” 

“I claimed you for the night,” she answers, and it’s not in any way reassuring. “You will be one of us, you will live with us, you will feed off humanity, you-“

“Uh, no?” he sputters. “That’s just- That’s a big no, lady, and you can leave right now.” She goes to lick him again, but Jonny has lost whatever inhibitions he had about treating her politely, and he knows how to headlock an opponent these days. So. She scritches at his door awhile, like the world’s most threatening kitten, and when he goes out in the morning, she’s gone. 

The good news is, he’s definitely not a vampire. The morning sun feels good. Nothing else feels quite right, though. Food, in particular, seems sort of flavourless, and he’s a little hungry even before skate. 

The conversation with the medics after does him no good at all. “I’m a what?”

“Incubus,” says Melville, patiently. “Look, it’s not great news, but it’s manageable. You need regular sex, is all, to keep you nourished, so-“

“Oh. Okay,” says Jonny, like that’s not a problem. 

“Hey, you have hypnotic powers now,” she points out, because possibly he is transparent about this. “You can get whoever you want.”

“Jesus,” is all he can say to her. What the hell, morality? “I’m not going out to roofie half Chicago just to stay on my nutrition plan.”

She pats his arm. “You’re sweet. And also, doesn’t have to be that many people. But twice a month, minimum, or you’ll be in trouble, Toews.” 

*

See, Jonny doesn’t like picking up. Some would say he’s bad at it because he doesn’t like it. Some would say he doesn’t like it because he’s bad at it.

Patrick says it’s both, absolutely. “You’re incredible,” he says, but the way he’s laughing makes it hard to assume it’s a compliment. “The way you shut down that girl. She was _on the floor_ for you, dude, and you just-“

“I know,” Jonny says, head in his hands. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, sure,” Patrick says, after checking. “She has about fifteen friends around and they’re all badmouthing you to her. And laughing. Pretty sure she’s going to be fine.”

“Great.” Well, it is great in a way. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He really doesn’t, in fact, which is what’s making this so impossible. “I’m going to die,” he adds.

“Nobody ever died of blue balls, Tazer,” says the guy who to Jonny’s personal knowledge gave it his best shot in his acned teenage years (while bitching to Jonny about it, fucking endlessly, the first year they roomed together, before getting it together with about fifteen dudes over that summer and finding a whole new way of living).

They’ve shared a lot, him and Patrick. It feels inevitable that this is another thing on the list. “I will,” he says, grimly. “I- I got turned, three weeks back.”

Three weeks in which Jonny has achieved one partial feed off a fan so enthused he stuck his hand down Jonny’s pants in a men’s room in Minneapolis, and Jonny got in a couple of licks to his skin before coming all over his hand. And the dude didn’t even stick around to give Jonny what he really needs.

Which, he explains it to Patrick, whose eyes bug steadily further and further out of his head. “You’re an incubus? _You_?”

“I know,” he says, dolefully. “I’m not a natural.”

Patrick starts laughing again. “Oh god, no, no you are not,” he says. “And I bet you have all these scruples about hurting people, and-“

“That’s not actually a bad thing,” Jonny feels compelled to point out. 

“No, but,” Patrick shrugs, “Sex to save your life, when they’re pretty much offering to pay you for the privilege? I think you might go a little easy on your scruples, there, Tazer.”

“Ugh,” says Jonny, swigging all of his remaining beer to take away the bad taste. “Some of us don’t want to be paparazzi bait, Kaner. And it’s like a double whammy of, you know, magnetism, now-“

Patrick points at the girl who just crashed and burned with Jonny. She’s dancing with some of her girlfriends, with an interested ring of guys surrounding them. She does not look distraught. “I think your victims are pretty safe from your magnetism, dude. Especially the ones that actually meet you.”

“Shit.” There’s just no good way out of this. “I pretty much have to get laid or-“ He chokes saying it, but it’s got to be done. “Or no hockey. I can’t play on this level of nutrition.”

Which is the best possible way to get Patrick to shut up and take a situation seriously. “No _hockey_?” It comes out as a squeak, and not a cute one. Heads turn. “No, no way, I am not having you die of no sex, if I have to pick up guys for you _myself_ -“

There’s a brief horrifying moment when Jonny imagines the kind of dude who finds Patrick irresistible (a stretch, always, but definitely they exist, he and all of the hockey gossip world have seen the evidence), thinking he’s got his guy and then having Patrick swapped out for Jonny. He appreciates the thought, but, “I’m not really sure that’s going to work,” he gets out, somewhat stifled by incredulous laughter rising. 

“Well, do _something_ ,” says Patrick, unoffended. “What do you need, anyway? I mean, you said handy guy didn’t get it done for you so-“

“I need them to come for me,” says Jonny, helplessly. “That’s all.”

“Shit,” Patrick says, simply, “Shoulda said so earlier. Come home with me, problem solved.”

Jonny’s brain isn’t functioning properly, because he’s pretty sure he just got propositioned by Patrick Kane. “Uh.”

“You think I wouldn’t jerk off to save your life, Tazer? I’m hurt,” says this idiot, dragging him by the hand right out of the bar, like there’s a fire or something. 

*

The stupid thing is, it’s working. They’re on Patrick’s bed, because he just got the couch recovered (the _romance_ in this scenario? Is amazing, Jonny’s heart is spinning). Patrick’s stripped out of pants and underwear, but he still has his shirt on, till Jonny starts nosing against it, wanting to get at his neck. 

Technically, the shirt stays on, but the level of unbuttoning and wrestling it out of the way renders it pretty much useless. Jonny’s a little nervous about the licking thing, but Patrick says firmly, “This whole thing was my idea, Tazer. Nobody’s roofied, okay?” which sounds exactly like him, and lets Jonny go to town all over his neck and chest, ingesting all that fucking amazingness that is a healthy human male getting himself off. Patrick’s doing nothing fancy, one hand and some lube, sharp and blunt smells of precome and silicone mingling with the pheromones flooding through Jonny. He can feel all his muscles starting to pop, the nutrients they’ve been starved of coming back to life, and by the time Patrick mutters something strained and then arches hard, spilling into his fingers, Jonny’s pretty much back to peak condition. 

“’s better if I come too,” he says, apologetically, but the doctor was pretty clear about that. “Okay?”

Patrick says, “Eh,” and waves an exhausted, permissive hand at him, so Jonny jerks off right there, coming onto Patrick’s belly so he’s even more of a mess.

“Hey,” he says, a tiny bit indignant, “Rude!” 

Jonny flushes darkly, because obviously that wasn’t in the deal and he overstepped, but Patrick sticks his tongue out and then laughs, so apparently they’re good and he still can’t tell when Patrick’s teasing, is all. 

“Gimme a Kleenex,” is all Patrick says as a follow up, and mops the goopiest parts before heading off into his bathroom to wash off. “Stick around a minute?” he shouts behind him as he goes, so Jonny does. Fastens up his pants and gets off the bed, because that’s starting to feel weird, but that’s all. 

Patrick comes out of the bathroom towel-clad, with his hair plastered down and dripping, after a speedy shower. “So, that was easy?” he says, and it’s only the definite questioning tone that suggests he’s not quite sure of himself. 

“Yeah. Thanks,” says Jonny. “I’d have- Well. Thanks.” I would have died without your come, is a sentence he’s a very long way from being able to say. And also, it would be a minor exaggeration. 

“What’s your minimum food intake?” Patrick asks it blandly. “The docs must have told you.”

“Every other week,” says Jonny. It doesn’t sound so much, now he’s fed. 

“That all? Well, that’s easy, then,” Patrick says. “Every second Wednesday, yeah? Assuming you can’t man up and pick up someone for yourself instead.”

“Wow, really?” Jonny isn’t sure how to respond. On the one hand, it’s a hell of an offer. On the other, maybe it doesn’t feel like a big deal to Patrick. “Thanks, man.”

“Can't see you starving to death, you poor dumb animal,” Patrick says, carelessly. “Go work on that pickup technique, though. Don’t go getting slack on me.” 

“Sure, sure,” says Jonny, grateful as hell.

*

They don’t review the arrangement for a couple of months. It’s just awfully noticeable that Jonny plays better the few days after a feed. The day of it, he’s almost too pumped, and Patrick’s sometimes a little off if they time it badly enough that he’s still coming down by game time. But when they get it right, Jonny’s unstoppable on the ice, and Patrick always was that, anyways. 

It’s not that he’s not looking for alternatives. But Jonny's pickup technique does not improve. He keeps trying, but the looks of disinterest, embarrassment or revulsion that he gets from his intended prey just keep on coming. You would think being turned into a creature of darkness that feeds on sex would give you at least some level of intrinsic game, but if anything he's just dorkier. Well, it's awkward, trying to fuck people for food. He doesn’t do hidden motivations well. 

And anyway, their arrangement works way better. It's getting really efficient. “Once a week?” Patrick suggests, eventually. “It’s nutrition, not, like, performance-enhancing drugs or something. I don’t think it’s unfair to the other teams, is it?”

“Sure, whatever,” says Jonny, lately fed and still licking at the hollow of Patrick’s collarbones, where satiated light sweat gathers. He tastes so salty-sweet-satisfying. Like the dust at the bottom of a packet of peanuts, full of forbidden additives and so good you keep grossly coming back for more. 

Patrick squirms. “Stop that, or I’ll get- Oh, look what you did.” He’s definitely getting hard again, and not subtly. 

“Sorry,” says Jonny, and reaches out to take care of that. It’s only after, sucking his own fingers to get every vestige of Patrick’s pleasure clean, that he realises they don’t do that. Touch each other, come twice in one feeding session, none of that. That’s approaching territory which would make this weird. Though the fact that Patrick makes Jonny stick around till he can get it up again, and then blows him with some serious precision and focus? That's just… parity. 

Nothing weird here. The incubus thing is totally normal. So is jerking off for food turning into outright fucking your teammate on the regular. As a foodstuff. Mandatory health rations, practically. 

Well. So both of them are pretty good at denial, turns out. They don't stop. They don't _talk_ about stopping. Or about anything, as the season turns from early laxity to midseason grind. Except for how Patrick turns it into a joke, characteristically. 

_Hey, you've reached Kane's supernatural whorehouse, how may I direct your call?_

_I should be charging you for this, Tazer. Where'd you get service like this anywhere else?_

_You want my shirt off? I dunno, I charge extra for kinky shit._

Jonny answers this mostly by ignoring it, because this is Patrick, and keeps on getting his from both of them getting theirs. Although, after that first moment of recognition, it has definitely morphed a good way from 'I jerk off to save your life', he has to admit. He's fucking Patrick one night, Pat's knee over his shoulder the best currently-accessible place to ingest all that sweaty pheromone, and Patrick's wriggling because the pit of his knee turns out to be ticklish. But the wriggling feels pretty good if you're Jonny, so he gets off hard, unexpectedly, pushing deeper than he intended, Patrick gasping, "Fucking _careful_ , we have a game tomorrow." Jonny pulls out, apologising, and gets his mouth down on Patrick, fingers hooking inside to feel his own come as he sucks Patrick’s eager, and this is even better than the knee thing, this is powerful, this is-

He's hard all over again when Patrick comes, and he wants _more_. It's a moment when Jonny carefully takes his emotions out and locks them away, because if he looks at what this became, it's going to be uncomfortable.

"That was intense," says Patrick, gasping for air still, and grinning like a fool. "Gotta say, I should be paying _you_ for this, sometimes."

"Like I need your permission," Jonny says, lazily, but with a sense of distancing himself from what just happened. "I could just lick you with my amazing hypnotic powers and you'd be powerless in my hands."

"But you wouldn't," Patrick returns, calmly, as his breathing steadies. "You're a good guy."

"Sure," says Jonny. Meaning it. Totally meaning it. Oh god, what does it mean that he doesn't entirely mean it?

*

He's awake, weeks later, when the memory of that moment comes back to him. They have a rare rest day the next day, perfect for fitting in a night's serious feeding, and Patrick was totally up for that when they started. Three rounds in as many hours, and he was grinning with pride the third time, because fuck, yeah, he's still got it, fuck ageing. Now he's exhausted, sloppy and fucked out, drooling into his pillow. Whereas Jonny has fed, and fed, and he wants _more_.

He could just wake Patrick. But there would be conversation, and grumbles, and even if Patrick's into it, it wouldn't be hard-driving, like-new sex. Just sluggish, fumbling getting Jonny off to keep him quiet.

Or Jonny could _lick_ , right there, and Patrick would be his, for the night. He could _bite_ , and Patrick would be his foreverrrrrr-

Wait. 

Two issues here. One, absolutely no way is Jonny going to do that to his friend, okay? Or to anyone. He may be a cursed being doomed to live off the lust of humankind, but he's not a _dick_. He doesn’t want a zoned-out pleasure slave, obedient to his every erotic whim. Shit. How did he ever think of that? How is that in his head?

Jonny decides, for all time, he doesn't want to be an incubus. It sucks. The only thing that's been making it work is Patrick, and of all the things he's not going to do, fucking things up with Patrick is right at the top.

The second issue is a very minor one compared with morality and keeping control of Jonny's evil destiny and shit, but there is also no way that if he bit Patrick, Patrick would be "his forever", with however many r's, inner voice. Seems like any kind of relationship with the person who turns you is optional anyways, since Jonny's never felt the urge to even find out the name or number of the woman who stuck him with this. But especially, a compliant, devoted Patrick? Unlikely, on all counts. 

Jonny pictures, briefly, Patrick chained with him as his immortal consort, bitching the whole time about how he never signed up for this, and experimenting with worse and worse hair every other year. It would be _awful_. It maybe makes Jonny laugh, but it isn’t a thing that would work in reality. Better to stick with what they have. Which is good. But sometimes, not quite enough. 

They're at his place tonight, because he doesn't always just go round to Patrick's when he needs sex. That would be a little too much treating this like an actual escort service. 

Although, possibly, that would have been safer to keep it that way rather than sliding into treating it, slowly, imperceptibly, like it's a regular thing. A regular sex thing. With friendship on the side. Kind of- relationshippy, in a way. Because this is not that. It's food. That’s what it is. And what Jonny wants right now is more sex. Definitely not the relationshippy kind.

It's only 1a.m., which is not an insane time to go out looking for sex. Patrick won't care. 

*

Jonny's never overwhelmingly oriented to dates during the season – game day or not game day is most of what matters, not so much is it Tuesday or what. It's not a Tuesday, in fact. It's Friday night. This is definitely not a bad time of day to be out looking for some extra snacky meaningless, tasty sex. 

The first girl he smiles at turns her back, but the next gets promisingly close. He can’t dance, but he can grind, and she enjoys it, presses back. He kisses her shoulder, kind of flirty, and she laughs. He could try talking, or at least dancing-ish some more, see where that takes him. But he knows where that takes him: home, unsatiated and embarrassed, because he has no game. He licks, instead, up her neck. She smiles at him again, but it’s different, a warm, blank smile, and she’s leaning slack against him, arms barely grazing him.

Her eyes aren’t full of panic, so it takes him a minute or two before the awful _wrong_ of what he just did kicks in. Even then, it’s fighting against the strongest internal instinct to push onward, to take more. To take what she offered, even though he doesn’t know if she’s still offering.

Christ, he thinks, and the word makes him flinch. Wow. Not a vampire, but still, apparently, not so much down with religion. He tries reciting the Lord’s Prayer, the way they learned at school, _Notre père qui êtes aux cieux-_. It hurts, but it steadies him against the inner drive that wants something that human Jonny would never have countenanced. He looks around, sees a bouncer, someone pretty sober-looking and responsible. “Hey, you see who she came in with?” He indicates the girl, flopped against his shoulder. “She’s pretty out of it, I think she needs some help.”

The bouncer sighs, and tuts, but signals a colleague, and amid the drunken hedonism of the club, a sober system kicks in. Jonny waits till the girl is seated with a first aider, sipping water, and leaves a twenty to call a cab if they can’t find her friends. She surfaces, just as he’s about to leave, enough to say, “What _are_ you?” Nobody but Jonny notices.

*

But he’s still hungry, is the thing. He hasn’t had enough, even with everything Patrick gave to him earlier. There’s still a gap in what Jonny wanted, and he’s still just off-balance enough to go on seeking it. There’s potential sex everywhere here. Couples getting off in the hallway by the first aid station, and he sniffs the air, longing to lean over. In the street, there’s a girl straddling a guy on a bench, heedless of the near-freezing temperatures. He gets so close the guy gives him an off look, but really, what could they do if he just leaned in and licked, just when one of them is coming? Just a little snack, a little theft of someone else’s come. That wouldn’t be so terrible.

There’s a group of girls ahead, drunk as hell, wearing sashes for some bachelorette thing, taking pictures of each other and the street. They could catch him lurking, for sure, catch him lurking. Blackhawks captain is prowler, voyeur. That would be bad. That would get _everywhere_ , and Jonny couldn’t laugh that off. 

Fuck. How did he end up here again?

He tries to remember which of the clubs it is that has the men’s room Shawsy is scared to go in, because there are glory holes and he got a surprise dick in the face one time in a cubicle. He can’t be sure enough to take the risk, though. That kind of behaviour definitely gets hockey players a bad rep, though it’d be healthier than what he just almost did to the girl in the club.

It’s dark and cold. Jonny’s feverish hunger is starting to abate, sapped by how much energy he’s using just to stay warm, keep moving. He doesn’t _need_ to feed, so maybe he just goes home. 

That’s sensible. Also Patrick’s there. That sounds more attractive than it did when he left, somehow. 

Patrick half wakes when Jonny gets back into bed. He still smells of their sex, sweaty and funky. Jonny licks up his neck to his mouth, and kisses him. 

“Bleurgh,” Patrick mumbles, cuddling into Jonny’s side. “Minty. ‘n you’re cold. Where’d you go?” But he’s falling back asleep as he asks, and Jonny follows him before too long. Lulling, this feeling. More satisfying than the sex he didn’t have, with the people that he didn’t know. 

In the morning, though, Patrick’s a hell of a lot more awake, and not stupid. Jonny left his clothes on the bedroom floor, and he can smell them when he wakes. Beer, sweat, some cigarette smoke; nothing his bedroom smelled like when they’d finished fucking last night. 

“You went out last night,” Patrick says, over coffee. It’s not exactly an accusation – how could it be, when they’re just in an arrangement? Food-sex, hockey, buddies, nothing more. 

“Yeah,” Jonny says, and he sounds ashamed to his own ears. “I- There may be a problem, here.”

“Well, go talk to someone,” Patrick answers, smooth and easy and logical. Not me, he doesn’t say. But it’s there. For the first time in this, Patrick’s out.

*

So the Blackhawks medics don’t have any real experience in this area, but there are practitioners to be found. Jonny’s grateful to be in Chicago for this. Apparently in Florida or Calgary he’d have struggled to find a guy, but here, he has options. 

“The best,” he demands. “I need someone to fix me.” He gets back a sigh, and a short lecture on how therapist relationships aren’t about a simple fix, and there needs to be compatibility, and blah blah he doesn’t care, but eventually they fix him up an appointment with a guy after an afternoon game. 

Sam Wendish turns out to be a woman, which is a surprise at the start. But that’s okay. Jonny has lots of women working on his professional life. Just not right up in his business, when he thinks about it. But there’s no issue here. Of course not.

He starts with a quick explanation of getting turned, his general lack of game, his arrangement with Patrick- It’s really easy to talk about. Especially because there’s no need to explain how that changed. Not really. He mentions something about feeding more often, how they were both cool with it, that sort of deal. No big. 

It does make it sound a little bizarre that one night he suddenly went nuts and took off hunting for some helpless girl. That he could have _raped_ her. And there’s that word; he’s been trying not to think about it, though it’s what his nature is now, right? That’s what he is.

Turns out his fingernails are drawing blood in his palms when Sam gets through to him. “Jonathan? Jonathan I need you to relax.”

“But I’m-“

“Yes,” she says, “You have some terrible instincts. I hope and trust they’re a part of your supernatural feeding pattern and not something deeper from your human self, but they are there. They’re real, they are damaging, and you have to learn to manage them. It’s good you came for help. We’re going to work on this.”

Apparently, he’s been talking for forty-five minutes already. That’s the end of the session. Sam says, “We’ll talk about control techniques next week. And maybe a little more about Patrick. You’re certain he’s not in thrall to you?”

“Fuck, no,” says Jonny. He’s pretty confident of that. “I thought about it, once, but it- Nope. It’d be all wrong.”

“Okay,” she says, though there’s a thread in her tone that he doesn’t completely like. “So long as it’s just a clear arrangement you have with Patrick, I need you to say right now that you won’t feed off anyone else till we meet again. And only go to Patrick if you need food, and if he’s okay with it. Is that reasonable?”

Of course it’s reasonable. He says as much. 

The next night, in a shitty hotel in Nashville where the aircon is out in half the rooms, Jonny knocks on Patrick’s door, and fucks him halfway to next week. 

*

Patrick doesn’t ask about Sam. He knows there’s a thing, but he seems to recognise Jonny isn’t in a place to talk about it.

Sam, on the other hand, asks about Patrick a lot. 

“Why did you choose Patrick? What’s your prior relationship? Does he have issues with being your food source? Do you think he has feelings for you? Now, or of long standing?”

That last one makes Jonny twitch and rebel. “No, no way, this is team stuff. And free sex. Kaner’s always been easy for that.”

“You don’t respect him much,” she notes. 

“No, I totally do,” he protests. “You should see him on the ice-“

“But you’re seeing him off the ice,” she returns. “He’s very convenient to you.”

“Yeah,” says Jonny. “Yeah, he is. He gets it. Hockey. You don’t get it, but Kaner doesn’t let me down. The team. Doesn’t let us down.”

“Why is that?” she asks, and he doesn’t know where to go with that.

*

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” shouts Patrick into the thin hotel pillow, and the _thunk_ on the bedroom wall says Hoss would appreciate them keeping it down a little tonight.

Which, Jonny would, but seems like Patrick’s on the same page as him now, and they can’t seem to stop. It’s not like there’s a game tomorrow. And they won today, so anything goes. 

Jonny’s hips slapping against Patrick’s ass are a solid, intoxicating counterpoint to Patrick’s words and grunts, _slap, uh, slap, fuck, slap, yeah there there Christ, slap, ohhhhhfuck_. Jonny can almost feel his muscles breathing, oxygen and calories flooding him the way he needs. And more. He fucking loves this feeling.

After, Patrick laughs at the ceiling, weak and happy. “You are ridiculous, man. And you got me doing it too, now. Going like a fucking train.”

Jonny laughs back at him, licking his neck, shoulder, down into his armpit, where Patrick’s tickly and tastes of cheap chemicals, but under it the pheromones Jonny needs are still going. Patrick squirms, but Jonny holds him down, and he falls passive after a moment. 

Jonny’s head jerks up when he realises what that could mean, checking urgently. The look he gets back is clear, though. Clear, skeptical and focused. 

“What? You think you put me under with your magic spit?”

“I- I think I could have,” Jonny gets out. “I should be more careful.”

Patrick shrugs, a lithe ripple of muscle all over his solid shoulders. Jonny loses moments there, contemplating, in a way that has nothing to do with food. “For the record, you want to do that once more tonight, I’m there. Anything else- I can’t help you. Unless you want to be the little spoon. You can stay if you want.”

“Cool.” Jonny’s okay, fed fat and happy, without that driving need to trouble him tonight for some reason. “Think Hoss heard?”

“I _know_ he heard me,” Patrick says. “Let’s hope he thinks this is my room, huh? Because that was _not_ quiet. Think you might get away with it, though. Assuming we’re still keeping this dark.”

“Yeah, of course,” Jonny answers. “I don’t want anyone to know.” Being an incubus for one person is bad enough. Having the whole team know what a horrible thing he is now is not on Jonny’s agenda. 

Patrick grunts and rolls away, sticking his head under a pillow and flailing for the light switch. Kind of offended maybe? When Jonny replays things, maybe sounded like he wanted to keep Patrick dark, as much as the incubus thing. Which, it’s not exactly true, but not exactly untrue either. How would he explain Patrick to anyone else?

*

He’s been working on stuff with Sam about understanding what being an incubus means, long term, as well as short term exercises about self-control and how to calm what she keeps on calling his ‘predatory desires’, ugh. Jonny’s doing pretty well. Visualisation and meditation are stuff he’s familiar with, they make sense, and he can feel the progress in his body. He has to accept he may never be truly safe, but he can be safer, at least.

Sam’s big on metaphors and comparisons, and for a while she tried him on the whole drugs-and-booze comparison, one slip is one too many, you’re an alcoholic, even if you haven’t had a drink. All that.

Except, in the end, they have to agree that it’s not that at all. It’s food. It’s the difference between eating healthy and eating shit, or not eating. Something you do for good reasons, that can turn to bad. 

Sam looks so pleased with herself when they get there, or pleased with him, like she’s been waiting for Jonny to get the analogy. “And you’re accustomed to controlling and managing your food intake, so that’s familiar territory. I think you can work with this, Jonathan. You are strict about your diet, because you understand the negative consequences for you if you do not. And not just for you, for the team.”

Because that’s the place where her analogy falls down. Jonny’s incubus status, taken to the places he sometimes longs to push it, doesn’t have bad consequences _for him_. It’s other people who’d get fucked up.

Which is when Sam says, hey, how about bringing Patrick to a session. There’s some stuff it would be good to discuss with him. 

Fuck, no, Jonny throws back.

But it turns out, it wasn’t actually optional. So he doesn’t go back. 

*

“So,” says Patrick, a week later, when Jonny’s doing _fine_ without a therapist, and hasn’t nearly broken down and gone out looking for sex a half dozen times. 

Not at all. He’s not worried. Not Sam. Not about his stupid, controllable, terrifying urges. Not about the increasingly imminent playoffs and the general lack of time and energy for fucking during that intense time. Not about the summer break after that, even though he never sees Patrick over summers that much, and he needs a food source somewhere, somehow from June to September. Not about how now, when he’s out in the bars, he doesn’t want to pick up, not really, because this is good, just so long as nobody thinks too hard about what’s good about it. Nope.

Which is when Patrick fucking starts thinking. That’s what, “So” presages. “So,” he says again, kind of bashfully, “Do you- Did you ever try _not_ feeding off me when we’re-“ and he stops, and maybe blushes, and this is Patrick, pretty much shameless in bed as far as Jonny’s ever discovered (and he’s tried; lately there have been toys, and tongues where Jonny for one has never really considered tongues should go, and stuff he picked up on redtube that looked worth a shot and made Patrick’s eyes roll back and his breath huff out for minutes on end, and made him taste so fucking sweet Jonny could have swept the Preds single-handed if he could’ve just kept on feeding on that taste). “When we fuck,” Patrick tries again, “Could you maybe not? Just once.” He looks at Jonny’s face, all blank rejection if it’s accurately portraying what’s in Jonny’s head. “I’m not cutting you off, man. I just- It’s not always easy, being food.”

Oh. Maybe this is what Sam wanted Jonny to think about? “Sure,” he says, because he doesn’t _want_ to, exactly, but he can be a friend if that’s what Patrick needs. 

It’s vanilla, for them, slow kissing, hands straying and smoothing, Patrick’s thigh hitched up across them to give Jonny something to grind against, his hands ending up on Patrick’s ass, pulling him in hard as Patrick’s teeth worry at his neck. Slow and sloppy, and kind of sweet. But not what Jonny wants, in the end. He’s holding back the whole time, keeping his mouth clear of his feeding zones, never losing himself. Patrick finishes ahead, way ahead of where Jonny is, and when he moves off to jerk Jonny off with better wrist clearance there’s a resigned look on his face. He bares his throat to Jonny, in the end. “Go for it. It’s okay.” 

Three licks of that hollow at his throat, where the heady scent of climax lingers longest. It’s not the same as tasting Patrick come in real time, but it’s fucking good. Jonny comes from the mechanical, routine stroke of Patrick’s fingers, spilling easy just from that. 

“Yeah,” says Patrick, after. “So, that clears things up, huh?” 

He goes home to sleep, that night. Jonny stares at the ceiling, and doesn’t go out to feed. 

“I might need some help,” he says to Sam. He has a feeling the only reason she doesn’t say ‘duh’ back at him is some therapist code of honour. “If I can bring Patrick, will you see us?”

*

It’s not that simple, scheduling around a really intense late season timetable, two short road trips and a quick turnaround between. Also, Sam is not Jonny’s personal shrink and apparently her other clients can book stuff well ahead of time. In all, it’s almost two weeks before he can even schedule a meeting, and persuading Patrick to come too takes half of that.

Half of that part that isn’t hockey, honestly. Hockey first. And it’s intense enough, fighting it out for the Central Division just now. Jonny doesn’t have a lot of headspace for the incubus thing. It’s what it is, he’s dealing, he’s getting help.

He’s _hungry_. God, is he hungry. He’s gotten accustomed to a buffet of Patrick, always available, getting off while Jonny feasts, everybody having a good time, nobody feeling bad. 

It’s not that he can’t function. So much was clear from the docs at the start. Feeding every other week would keep him topped up with essential nutrients. Feeding once a week was a luxury, when they started. He’d gotten close to once a day by the time Patrick asked him to stop. Or, pause. So it’s just greedy to be missing that. Jonny knows he could ask for help, if he can’t find food, if he needs to survive. But asking feels all kinds of wrong. 

He pictures Patrick’s face falling. “Not really feeling it tonight, man.” Or, worse, seeing Jonny desperate, trying to get himself off, looking away, mechanical motions eventually giving Jonny a grudging feed. It’s how they started, but he knows now that he can’t go back to that.

The alternatives are go on a serious sex diet, or find someone else for food. The first is easy enough at the start. He keeps checking the medic’s notes, simple though they are, and there’s no loophole. Jonny doesn’t have to have this anywhere near daily. And yet, his play starts to fall off. By Edmonton on their first roadtrip, he’s struggling at the end of shifts, turnovers and giveaways aplenty, and his faceoff percentage drops to barely 25. That’s not him. 

Patrick’s face in the locker room after the loss is a picture of angry concern. “Guess you better get fed, huh?” he says. It’s an offer, but it’s just as reluctant as Jonny pictured. 

“Yeah, I guess,” he returns. “Know any good bars?” Trawling for a willing piece of ass in Edmonton on a Tuesday in late February. This sounds like it’ll go _super_ well. But Patrick shrugs at him, and of course he does. 

In fact, Patrick shrugs at him, and invites everyone to join them, drown their sorrows, and, “Watch Tazer crash and burn, guys. He’s in the _moooood_.”

(Which is bitchy but also reassuring. Jonny didn’t break Patrick, or anything. Not that he has really thought he did. Mostly. Maybe a few times, late at night. Okay, a lot. It's bad, being an incubus. He realises this, gut-punch hard, almost more than he has done previously. That he didn't know how badly he could hurt Patrick, while just seeking his necessary nutrients. And till Patrick rubbed his dumb face in it, he didn't notice at all.)

None of which makes picking up easier. There are plenty of girls, but a good percentage duck away from him when they spot half the Hawks watching, jeering at him, making obvious bets. The ones that are left- Okay, they're probably great people when you get to know them, but some look a little scary. Some very determined. He's heard stories, paternity tests and dick pics and a host of public humiliations that can come your way from picking up badly if you don’t have a handy NDA. And it's not like he never does it (Patrick is laughing in his head right now, obviously) but he feels all kinds of off tonight, lacking even his usual doubtful game, and more than normally aware of all the bad consequences that could follow. 

Finally, on the dance floor, he gets into a sweaty grind with a girl who isn't all grabby hands and who is one of those who ducked away when she saw the guys watching but came back for more, and he thinks, maybe this one isn't so much a risk? He invites her back to the hotel, and is more than grateful when she offers her own hotel room as an alternative ("Because these guys listening is gonna be a distraction I don't want, babe."). He likes her, enough that this isn't just an essential feed, he thinks. And she's eager, more than willing, well in her right mind, so none of the careful alarm bells Sam drilled into him is screaming.

Super-cautious, still too aware, and _hungry_ as hell, he can barely get it up in her room. Ends up eating her out till his jaw is screaming, and she's gone from enthused convulsions against his face to plucking exhaustedly at his hair, thighs slack on his shoulders. He jerks off in that position, not bothering to get up to her level, and finds himself outside of her door maybe ten minutes after he's done.

He stands for a minute, blinking in confusion. He's _fed_ , for sure. But- This doesn't feel like it did when it was Patrick. Nothing like as good. Shit. 

He doesn't sleep so well.

*

It’s enough to get him through till they’re back in Chicago, though. He’s playing okay. Not the levels he made when he was feeding off Patrick regularly, maybe. But everyone has highs and lows, and sometimes it’s just luck.

He’s pretty sure that’s all it is. 

Not sure enough, maybe.

So he’s excited, the day he takes Patrick to see Sam. It’s possibly stupid of him, but he’s expecting this to help. Fix stuff. 

Which… Well. Sam and Patrick seem to get along okay. She talks with him, mostly, easing him into opening up. Which is never difficult once you get him talking hockey. He’s flashing that flirty smile, and making her laugh, and it’s twenty minutes into the session before she even mentions Jonny. 

“Tell me about how you found out about Jonathan’s problem.” It’s tactful, he appreciates it, that she doesn’t say the incubus thing. A problem. Just another problem. With a resolution, likely.

“He told me,” Patrick shrugs. “He’s good that way. Doesn’t fuck around. Also, I think he was pretty desperate by then. He’s not much for pickups, and it was-“ He laughs. “If he relied on that to live, he’d starve pretty quick, you know?”

Fuck you, Jonny carefully doesn’t say. I picked up last week. I can do that. I don’t need you. Crap, obviously, all of it, but he wants to say it anyway.

“So you helped him out?” Sam, again, not specifying.

But Patrick’s not much for pussying around, any more than Jonny. “Sure. Jerk off to help a friend? Not a problem. And, okay, it went pretty far pretty fast, but I wasn’t going to complain. We were really good together, the team was benefiting, everyone was having a great time. And, you know, good sex is-“ he shrugs again. “Good.”

Jonny’s neck and ears feel like they’re on fire. _Good sex_. It’s not like he didn’t know that. He was there too. But it doesn’t sound how it really was. Doesn’t sound just like a transaction. Patrick’s voice went toneless, toward the end there, like he’s upset about something. Which, realistically, Jonny knows what.

So does Sam, but she asks him anyway. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

Patrick rolls his shoulders, stretching his neck. He does that before media sometimes, mostly when it’s not a win situation. It would be cowardly to leave now, right? Jonny toys with feigning a bathroom emergency, but nobody’s going to buy that. And anyway, Patrick’s already talking. “You know what? I forgot I was just the food. It was stupid. I guess good sex is like that too; distracting. But I asked him to not feed off me once, and- Well. That didn’t work out. Plus, I know he wanted to go elsewhere. Like, I wasn’t enough for him.” 

Sam lets those last words hang, lonely and small, for a while. “Thank you, Patrick,” she says, eventually. “That can’t be easy, having that mixture of emotions. That you were in a happy, productive relationship, but it was on an unequal footing?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Though I wouldn’t say relationship. Just a thing.”

Jonny nods, vigorously. Sam doesn’t have that part right at all. It’s good that Patrick spoke up.

She leans back and smiles at them both. “Okay. It’s not my role to fight you on terminology, sure. But you were pretty much exclusively in a close, sexual relationship for several months. Is that accurate?”

Well. Yeah. Jonny’s ears aren’t the only ones to flush red this time. 

“To an extent, it’s as well that you didn’t verbalise the situation,” she adds. “Usually, I’d say that communication is the key, but in this case, with Jonny so new in his demonic state, and you lacking support in understanding what’s happening, you’d have risked forming a permanent bond. Unless- Patrick, would you have wanted that?”

He looks at her blankly. “Uh, I’m not really looking for marriage at this point. And I seriously doubt that Jonny is, with me.”

“Well, it’s more like an eternal consort situation, with demonic overtones,” she says, calmly. “But I’m glad it didn’t get to that stage without your informed participation.”

“Oh, shit,” Jonny says, involuntarily. “Is that what that was?” 

Patrick’s head whips round, and even Sam comes close to emoting. “Could you expand on that, Jonny?”

“I, uh, I wanted to-“ he sputters. “Uh, make him mine? I guess? But I didn’t,” he adds, quickly. “Wouldn’t do that shit without asking.”

“ _Good_ ,” Sam says, and it’s warmer than she usually lets herself get. “I’m very glad to hear you say that, Jonny.” Her eyes flick to the wall clock, professionally. “We’re out of time, but can we meet again soon, please? I think we’re surfacing some important issues here. If you’re willing to keep helping out, Patrick?”

One of the things about Patrick? He doesn’t rat out on friends. So, clearly, he says yes.

They file out, not speaking, and drive off separately. Which is not to say Jonny doesn’t keep on thinking about this situation. 

Understatement.

*

Therapy and pro hockey are clearly never going to be in perfect harmony. It's five days later, in a generic business hotel in San Jose which could be anywhere in the Western hemisphere, that Jonny finds himself outside Patrick's door. 

They have an appointment with Sam in another four days, squeezed in between a late start in Vancouver and a TV special afternoon game two days after. Realistically, no one is likely to be on top form after that, for deep discussions about what the hell is happening with the two of them. And meanwhile-

Patrick answers, tired and scruffy, his beard coming in like the first day of playoffs, ancient OHL tee stretched out at the neck so that his tendons look vulnerable, exposed. God, Jonny wants him. Wants all of that. He's only just realising that that _is_ what he wants. And he's not entirely sure how to explain. 

_So, hey, you know how I like to use you as a foodstuff? Wanna mingle that with some dating and sex, maybe?_ And the stupid thing is, since the last time, and the time with Sam, he thinks Patrick maybe does, or did, or could. But it's the middle of the damn season and he doesn't want to fuck it all up.

What he actually says is, "Hey, sorry, but could we maybe-"

And Patrick returns, "What, you got the munchies?" Baring his neck for Jonny and ghosting his hand toward his own dick, teasing. 

It's lighter, funnier, than the last few times. Lacks that heavy, unspoken duality that overlaid them once Jonny looked elsewhere, and Patrick asked to be more than food. 

"Could use a snack," Jonny says. "If you want to get laid." Bald and bold as that, like it's a bargain, but at least it's a fair one. Patrick laughs at him, right up in his face, and ghosts his fingers over Jonny's dick this time, enough to start the tingle of awareness going fast. 

This time will work, he knows it. And it'll be _good_. Patrick-good. 

It is. It’s really good. Fast and sloppy and Patrick’s dick half-choking him because they’re both so eager, and Jonny coughs and grumbles his way back up Patrick’s body to take them both in hand and get them both off quick and hard and _needed_. 

He considers not feeding, though that last hook-up feed didn't exactly satisfy, and he could use it. But Patrick's still wearing that damn stretched-out shirt, throat bared, and he can't resist putting his mouth there as he comes.

Coming down, he tries to think whether this is a bad way to say it, or a bad thing to say, and eventually, heartbeat slowing, murmurs. "It's not as good with anyone else. I don't want them like this."

"I'm not becoming your fucking demon bride, dude," says Patrick, still laughing. Almost laughing. There's something in back of his eyes that isn't finding the funny. "But, you know, feel free to not fuck other people again."

It wasn't a good thing for Jonny to say, put it that way. It's just- it's fucking confusing, where they've arrived at. You can't cheat on a foodstuff. But that's apparently what Jonny did. And now he knows it.

*

They keep up the feeds, but while it may be keeping Jonny’s muscle tone tip-top, his magic is definitely not propelling the Hawks to the Cup. First round losses suck hard, even when they’ve put up a decent fight and the Blues only snuck it at the last. 

And yet, it doesn’t seem too dark in Jonny’s head. He’s not tormented with wanting to feed. He’s just getting by with a regular dose of Patrick, thank you. It’s summer in Chicago, and that does not suck when you have the time and money to enjoy it. They both do exactly that, all the way to the convention. And beyond. 

It’s mid July when Sam calls them on it, in the midst of a lacklustre couples session that doesn’t seem to be getting them any further. 

“You usually go home for the summer, don’t you?”

“Yeah…” Jonny can feel the avoidance sliding into his tone. He has in fact got a bunch of endorsements and a set of concerned voicemails from his mother suggesting that getting to Winnipeg in the next week is pretty damn urgent. What he does not have is a plane ticket. Or any wish to go. 

Sam looks at him like she can read every weasel word. Patrick looks at his toes. Is he thinking about Buffalo? He hasn’t mentioned it. Jonny looks away.

“This is home now,” says someone. It’s not Jonny. 

“Uhuh,” says Sam, invitingly. Patrick looks as uncomfortable as always when she pulls this, more used to media-trained avoidance than to fronting up. “What’s important is here.”

“And what is it that’s important?” she asks. 

Patrick really should have seen that coming. But it takes some blinking and gulping before he starts. The lake. Training. The guys (well, Sharpy and the kids, this time of year). His apartment. 

“And, you know-“ Patrick waves a hand across the couch. Towards Jonny. His words dry up. 

“Jonathan?” says Sam. “Jonathan’s what’s important? That’s why you stayed here this summer?”

Patrick closes his eyes, dark lashes flirting against pale skin, like it’s easier to hide this way. “Yeah. Jonny’s important. I didn’t want to go home without him.” He opens his eyes, and catches Jonny staring at him. He does _not_ say anything about demonic diets and keeping Jonny healthy. Just looks back. It’s like he’s waiting for Jonny to understand something. 

“Thank you, Patrick,” says Sam. “I know that was hard to say in this situation.” She eases back, makes a note, and then picks up her verbal dagger. “Jonathan, do you have anything you want to share?”

And, he can’t just leave Patrick swinging in the wind. “Yeah…” he starts, awkward in a way it shouldn’t be. This isn’t anything he hasn’t thought, or known, or felt in his gut sometime. “Yeah, I guess it’s the same for me. It’d feel wrong to go home. Without you.” Patrick shrugs, eyes down, avoidant. Something Jonny said didn’t land the way it should have. 

“Or-“ he stops, realisation dawning. “Or, without saying... I mean, it’s not just about the food. It’s not at _all_ about the food, I could always get someone-“ Wait. No, that’s not a way to go. “I would manage. But you wouldn’t be there. Or you’d be thinking I was just off feeding off whoever, for whatever kicks. And that’s not-“ His voice has got weirdly chopped up, like there’s too much trying to get said, or too little space in his throat. He swallows what feels like a golf ball of fear, and gets out. “That’s not how I feel.” 

Patrick smiles, then. It’s a good smile, one of those that the fans love to see. But his mouth quirks at the end. “Yeah? But… Jonny how do you _know?_ You’re, like, a different person now. I don’t think you know what that means. And I can’t just- I’m really glad you think this matters. But if it turned out I’m just meat-“

They stare at one another for so long that it’s eventually Sam who breaks the silence. “Yes. That’s a critical question, isn’t it? I think you’ll struggle to progress past that point.” Jonny’s heart sinks, but she’s not done. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“You need a Yoda, man,” says Patrick, unexpectedly. “Need to Dagobah off for a spell. Find your Force or whatever.” Like it’s a lightening of the atmosphere. Like, maybe, it’s something he’s been thinking of saying for a while. 

Sam says, “Yes. If you’re ready, Jonathan.” She reaches for a flier sitting on one of her side tables. “We’ve been working on this as though it’s purely a psychological issue. And I hope you’ve found that valuable. But there are programmes that can help do more than manage this day to day. Now that it’s summer, I think it would be good for you to consider this.”

 _Curb Your Hungers_ says the flier. _You don’t HAVE to be a demon!_ Jonny’s heart jumps. But the fine print clarifies this isn’t a cure. Just a way of managing the issues. 

Managing the issues. Not treating people as meat. Not treating _Patrick_ as meat. 

For the first time in a long while, Jonny thinks maybe he has an answer. 

*

Sam has contacts, it turns out. For clients who have come to the point of realising they need help, she has many, many contacts. Some of them Canadian. As Jonny makes the arrangements, as fast as money-no-object, fix-my-demon-urges-during-summer-season impetus can take him, Patrick is finding the situation just hilarious. 

“Fucking Saskatchewan, man? For _meditation_. That is so _you_.”

But it’s less funny when they realise what it means, which is separation. They fuck, quietly, that night. Like old lovers, Jonny thinks. Old, old lovers who don’t need to ask what’s good, and don’t need to verbalise their happiness. They just radiate it. He feels full to bursting. 

Patrick says, in the morning, “That should keep you going, yeah? Till-“ And he stops. 

Until something. Until Jonny is cured? (Doubtful. Sam didn’t ever promise that.) Until Jonny finds someone else, for a quick feed or… well, something more than a quick feed. Which doesn’t feel possible. 

He wraps his arms around Patrick, and doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have the right to ask. It’s Patrick who is braver. “You come back to me, okay?” he mumbles into Jonny’s neck. “Don’t go getting lost up there.” It’s vulnerable, but it’s something more than that. It’s like Patrick understands something Jonny can’t quite say. 

*

Camp is… Well. Patrick wasn’t wrong. It’s very Jonny. There are gurus, and meditation classes, and joyful encounters with nature. And there’s therapy, though not Sam’s style of questioning. 

“It’s about control,” says Gill, who is kind of the head of the camp, though they don’t really do hierarchies that way. “It’s about not letting your appetite rule your life.”

There’s a lot of scepticism in the air among Jonny’s little cohort of newbies. All are cursed with some form of demonic hunger, from sex to blood to emotional turmoil. They’re raw, and angry about the hand life just dealt them, and there’s a whole raft of sarcasm in the first days, before the camp starts to get to them. Jack and Bee and Tyrone all end up in the discreet feeding tent at some point their first week, taking what they need from a willing cohort or tutor. 

Jonny doesn’t. He still feels pretty well-fed, thank you. It gets noticed. 

“The fuck you on, man?” Tyrone explodes, in group on the eighth day, when his blood-hunger is soaring and his underlying skin-tone has turned ashy with malnutrition. “You fuckin’ some townie?” 

Bee snorts, not unreasonably. Town, insofar as that’s the right word at all, is twenty-nine miles off, half of that hiking trail. Jonny really hasn’t been taking that kind of time away from group. 

Gill usually lets them go pretty far in group before intervening. But today she’s firm. “I think Jonathan has already gone someway down the path we are searching. Maybe you didn’t realise,” she says, direct to Jonny, “But you’ve found something that’s helping you. Something more important than sex.”

“He’s a fucking incubus,” Bee chirps. She’s an equal-opportunity sniper, and she’s starting to look pretty hungry again. “He needs to fuck to live.” As she’s a succubus, she’s been pretty vocal about how convenient this is, and pretty pissed that Jonny isn’t taking her up on that coincidence of needs immediately. (He’s considered it. Will probably do it if he starts to starve. But it hasn’t felt like a priority so far.)

“You’re a vegan, right?” Gill says. Bee blinks, and nods nonplussedly. (She is definitely a vegan. It was the second thing they all learned about her, after the succubus and before the really-not-liking-squirrels issue became the most annoying thing about her.) “But human digestive systems are designed to be omnivorous.” 

Bee rolls her eyes, “Yeah, sure, like that’s what’s important when humanity exploits helpless animals just for some-“

“And Jonathan, before your tastes changed, you liked the taste of dairy, but you have mild lactose-intolerance, so you cut down, right? Especially when you were playing?” He nods a yes, of course, and starts to see where this is headed. Gill smiles at him, recognising his leap. “So… maybe what we eat isn’t entirely outside our control.”

There’s a pause, a silent _Oh_ among the group. 

“I’m not saying it’s easy. Jonathan missed ice-cream, till he got addicted to something demonic. Bee, you may not crave the taste of bacon, but there are many non-meat-eaters who do, and who still keep to their principles. And live healthily.” Bee opens her mouth, and shuts it, audibly. 

Gill smiles again, around the group. She’s enjoying their revelation, which must come to everyone who comes for treatment at some point. “It’s about balancing what you need to consume with what’s good for you and for others. That’s the work that we’ll do here, when you’re ready.”

*

Jonny’s ready. He’s so ready he’s only in the camp six weeks total, and he’s picking up his training before he leaves. 

He has fed, a couple times. But he’s also been allowed into town every Tuesday, to where his cellphone does more than stare at him blank-faced. And he has called Patrick, and talked. 

Every time, he comes back rosier. Tyrone teases him now, but in a good way. He’s finding packaged blood a workable solution, even the stuff past its hospital use. “Gonna hafta go into medical waste disposal,” he says happily. “Get me a feast every night.”

“Yeah,” says Jonny. “That’s the dream.” They hug, cautiously. Camp teaches you a lot, but there’s always the possibility of backsliding, of forgetting the power you have over other humans. Even demonically-powered humans. “You’ll be out before you know it, man.” He waves to Bee, and vaguely to Jack because he’s not an actual saint and some emotion-feeders are also just dicks. And he goes back to the real world. 

*

He goes to his own house first. Because he knows how to do measured. Patrick knows he’s coming home, but nobody is meeting anyone at the airport. They have to take it carefully. Reintegrate. Jonny knows this. He’s told Patrick, who sort of gets it. He thinks. It’s hard to tell on a fuzzy line in the midst of nothingness, when he’s only been hanging out with his own kind for weeks on end. He may have his normality wires crossed. 

He gets through the flight. He survives O’Hare. He isn’t even a little bit tempted to feed. Not by the hero-worship in the eyes of the cute student, or the aggressive space-invasion by the musclebound dude-fan who asks only for an autograph, when Jonny can smell he’d go to his knees at the first sign of encouragement. 

_can I come over?_

Patrick lasted a whole hour before texting, which is a little less than even Jonny hoped. He breathes, consciously. Is he ready? 

_yes please_ he sends back instantly. Carelessly needy after all. Patrick will laugh at him. 

Patrick doesn’t. He turns up within twenty minutes, and jostles Jonny inside, like he’s starved. He stops, two inches from Jonny’s mouth. “Can I kiss you? Or-“

Jonny wants. So, so badly. But- “There’s a thing you need to know. Before- Or, I’m not making assumptions, because it has to be something you’re okay with. And I never asked, or, not till now-“ He can hear his voice, absolutely toneless, flowing on, and on, and Patrick is just there, lips so close-

Until he starts to laugh, and steps back. “Okay, okay. Jonny, whatever it is you need to say, you gotta say it now. In, like, not too many words.”

Jonny takes a deep, steadying breath. The kind he practiced in camp. “Incubuses don’t only feed on sex. Or, they don’t have to. They can feed on, uh-“ Breath. Breath. “They can feed on love. And, uh, I’ve been doing that. With you. For a while.”

Patrick’s mouth opens a little. Stays open. Says nothing. 

So Jonny pretty much has to keep talking. “I didn’t do it on purpose. Didn’t even know it was a thing. They said at camp it’s pretty rare for it to happen spontaneously, usually it takes months of visualisation to get used to something that’s less than your ideal nutrition. Except it doesn’t feel less, not now I’ve been practising. And it doesn’t mean you’re under my thrall or whatever, it just happened, so that’s pretty cool. And you can’t feel under any obligation, I can go back to getting sex food if we, uh, if we stop, but it’s amazing this happened spontaneously, and-“

“That’s too many words,” says Patrick, and finally, somehow, Jonny stops. He’s gasping a little. That was… a lot. 

“Okay first,” Patrick continues, “There is no way you can go back to getting sex food. You will die of malnutrition in, like, a month, unless your camp thing turned you into some kind of pick-up artist which I _highly_ question.” He heads into the apartment, finally. “Second, we have to sit down and talk about this.”

Jonny’s couch is unfamiliar after so many weeks away. But with Patrick on it, it feels good. 

“Third,” Patrick says once they’re settled, “You’re feeding on love. As in, I love you so you’re feeding off that?”

When Jonny imagined hearing those words, when he visualised them at camp, they had a whole different ring. _I love you_. It’s still pretty cool, even wrapped up in analysis. Even allowing for the way Patrick’s wrapping his arms around himself, looking defensive. Because Jonny knows what’s coming next, and that? That is better than pretty cool. 

“No.” Patrick’s posture changes. Even tighter wrapped, and potentially unhappier. So Jonny hurries on, finding the words. “It’s got to be mutual. Or it’s not nourishing enough.” 

And Patrick unfurls. “So-“

“So, I love you. And I guess you love me. Cuz even when you’re hundreds of miles away, I didn’t have to feed much. I just- We talked. And it was good.”

“Whoa,” says Patrick, and pretty much hurls himself at Jonny. Good thing they made it to the couch, or there could have been injuries there. But he pulls back again, just before Jonny really gets to the good stuff. “Wait, do you just got to feed off the love now? If we fuck, you’re not gonna-“ he does a weird head waggle/hand wave that Jonny stares at blankly. Patrick clarifies, “Get a taste for sex food again and go on the rampage?”

“Nope.” Jonny sounds smug, even to himself. “I was hungry before, because I wanted more. But love’s pretty good for me.” 

There was a lot of work, in camp, working through this. Working out when he started to love, when Patrick maybe did. When the sex became less necessary, and when he wanted more because he hadn’t fully realised what he had, and what he could have. He’ll explain about that later, maybe. But right now his nose is full of Patrick, his arms are full, his lap is full, and the whole mystical bullshit doesn’t seem like it’s so important.

“My love keeps you alive,” says Patrick, kind of triumphantly. And then, more softly. “Shit, man. We got to keep this going. Got to take care of you.”

Jonny needs to get past that, fast. “I’m not your responsibility,” he says, seriously. He practised this part. “But, like, it’s really good it worked out this way. I’m really happy.” His voice doesn’t sound happy. 

Patrick kisses him, hard. “You’re a fucking idiot, Jonny. You’re my responsibility. And I sure as fuck am yours, right?”

Which, honestly, makes a lot of sense. 

Which is how Jonathan Toews became an incubus. But one who lives on love, not random sex with incredulous strangers. Who doesn’t have an immortal consort, just a pretty great boyfriend. Who won another cup, high on what his boyfriend insists on calling The Power Of Love. With serenade. It could have gone so much worse. 

There’s a dude on a line with his tongue literally hanging out for Patrick at the 2015 Convention. Jonny walks over and _growls_. “No licking.”

The dude looks back at him like what the fuck, and he’s probably not an incubus looking to make Patrick his own. But Jonny just wanted to make sure everyone’s on the same page. Nobody licks Patrick but him.


End file.
